For comparison here is a link to "The Lilies of the Valley," a ballad which I wrote in 1979 and posted on this blog on 1 March 2012. Incidentally, King Solomon's Mines remains a tremendous read - and to hell with political correctness.
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“...as I grow older I regret to say that a detestable habit of thinking seems to be getting a hold of me...” (Allan Quatermain in King Solomon’s Mines by H. Rider Haggard).
As I walked on the prom in the morning
Nodding to him and to her,
And the shopkeeper pulled out his awning,
Market Jew Street beginning to stir,
A sudden great horror enwhelmed me,
Cold as a wave of the sea,
For a detestable habit of thinking
Bounces me on its knee.
As if struck I froze in an anguish –
Ah, Sartre, Huysmans, de Sade! –
And Chapel Street started to languish
At the sun’s curdled aubade,
For life’s but an ill-willed hormone,
It starts, it’s lived, it’s flown,
And a detestable habit of thinking
Pierces me to the bone.
Futility and sadness
Torment even the little child,
In Causewayhead there’s madness
As the dead limp single-filed,
And tonight the moon will perish,
Throttled in its own wish,
Oh a detestable habit of thinking
Dangles me like a fish.
Well, the wind upon the mountains,
Like Life, will ever ring,
And words like spray from fountains
Through Bread Street will hiss and sting,
But the one unique loved other
Will die though balmed with myrrh,
And this detestable habit of thinking
Thrashes me like a cur.
Is the All but an absurd cipher,
A French farce that laughs to weep?
Does Sisyphus, the eternal lifer,
In Alverton Street beg for sleep?
Oh, I long to be a bourgeois,
Small-minded, safe below par,
For this detestable habit of thinking
Must mend but only to mar.
====================
© April 2023
--------------
“...as I grow older I regret to say that a detestable habit of thinking seems to be getting a hold of me...” (Allan Quatermain in King Solomon’s Mines by H. Rider Haggard).
As I walked on the prom in the morning
Nodding to him and to her,
And the shopkeeper pulled out his awning,
Market Jew Street beginning to stir,
A sudden great horror enwhelmed me,
Cold as a wave of the sea,
For a detestable habit of thinking
Bounces me on its knee.
As if struck I froze in an anguish –
Ah, Sartre, Huysmans, de Sade! –
And Chapel Street started to languish
At the sun’s curdled aubade,
For life’s but an ill-willed hormone,
It starts, it’s lived, it’s flown,
And a detestable habit of thinking
Pierces me to the bone.
Futility and sadness
Torment even the little child,
In Causewayhead there’s madness
As the dead limp single-filed,
And tonight the moon will perish,
Throttled in its own wish,
Oh a detestable habit of thinking
Dangles me like a fish.
Well, the wind upon the mountains,
Like Life, will ever ring,
And words like spray from fountains
Through Bread Street will hiss and sting,
But the one unique loved other
Will die though balmed with myrrh,
And this detestable habit of thinking
Thrashes me like a cur.
Is the All but an absurd cipher,
A French farce that laughs to weep?
Does Sisyphus, the eternal lifer,
In Alverton Street beg for sleep?
Oh, I long to be a bourgeois,
Small-minded, safe below par,
For this detestable habit of thinking
Must mend but only to mar.
====================
© April 2023
